Or through red smouldering afternoon,
With simple joy, with careful pride,
He plies the craft he long has plied:
To shape the stave, to set the sting,
To fit the shaft with irised wing;
And farers by may hear him sing,
For still his door is wide:
“Laugh and sigh, live and die,—
The world swings round; I know not, I,
If north or south mine arrows fly!”